Wolf
by A m r a k l o ve
Summary: Confined behind these bars for a crime no one could ever find proof of, he patiently waits for his trial. She's the only thing that stands out over the grey walls and hard, cement floors. / AU. Prison setting.
1. Prologue

A/N: Idk. The only thing I know is that I'm writing four stories at the same time and I _will_ finish all of them.

*Naruto's not mine*

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 _Down the street there's a little hole._

 _The little hole is on a wall._

 _The wall is in a dark alley._

 _Down the hole there's a table and a chair, a little lightbulb hung from above._

 _If you are lucky enough, you'll see what I just told._

 _But, as the saying goes, what person can go down a little hole?_

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 _ **Wolf**_

 _\- Prologue -_

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Ever thought of a psychopath, and its remedy? A psychiatrist, you would say. It tries to reach the psychopath's mind and stop him/her from being what you call insane, demented, twisted. Well, a psychiatrist would only delay the process of rehabilitation (if there's even one). The psychopath is already gone.

They see the world in other colours. Different colours from the ones you see. They think of people in a different way. They just think in a whole bizarre and extraordinaire manner, rare for normal, ordinary people. Much different from you and I. Strange for everyone but her, and him.

The psycopath laughs at it—at _her_. The psychopath laughs at the therapist. At the doctor. At least, internally. For they can't really help with anything, but they keep on trying, anyway.

The psycopath knows how the doctor feels; how the doctor's thinking. How she's thinking. It knows. _He_ knows, and he knows that she is quite aware of the tension between both of them; she knows that he's mocking her with every breath intake.

And it's easy to notice. The way her eyes try to hide every emotion present; the way she slightly shakes whenever he gets closer; when she tugs a stray of hair behind her ear while talking to him; when she tries to hide the subtle way her cheeks turn pink as he chooses one of those rare moments to show his perfect, white teeth to her and smirk. She tries and partly wins. Partly. Because _he_ notices. And it seems that he's the only one who does, because the guards don't even look at them through the bars unless he is getting too close for comfort, and the people wandering outside the hallways can't really see inside. He is the _only_ one that notices the tiny details. It is not rare. As usual, he notices everything. But, there are good things about being what he is, after all.

The psychopath is craving to kill—to bite; to torture; to taste the blood (every time she comes in)—but he understands he can't. In this ambiance the only human being you could ever trust is the one that's not there. But those ones—the people; the normal people—can not come in. Thus, there's no use. Stuck in prison for something no one could ever find proof of, the only change in atmosphere comes when she appears. He doesn't like change, but this one is just _fine_ , he muses.

The psychopath finds himself in a very controversial position. He knows he needs to get out of these boring, criminal walls, and he knows how to, but he just chooses to stay here, confined to early awakenings and early, sleepless nights; the camera at night grins at him, studying every movement. Why? No reason.

The psychiatrist realises one thing during a regular session: the psychopath can not change. This psychopath can't change. She realises hours per week talking and taking a few doses of medication—and watching over and over recorded footage of him in his cell—won't help him at all.

She knows.

But she keeps on trying, anyway.

And he stays. No reason.


	2. Un

**A/N:** Motivated to write this, although it's probably going to be one of my darkest pieces so far.

Sorry for the typos, I can never see them srsly xD And thanks for pointing them out.

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 ** _Wolf_**

 _\- Chapter One -_

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There are no words; no words directed to him, and no words directed to the other twenty men.

A nicely scratched, foul metal is thrown non-too-gently across the first few feet of the room—he cringes, for there is an evident lack of truth to the description. Splattered food is on the white tiles, contrasting with highly saturated colours—he does never wonder what the food exactly is. The food itself, he never comes near it. There are a few steps before he feels a similar metal sound in the neighbour's space.

But there are no words.

Sitting on the hard cement floor, his back starts feeling the negative effects of staying in the same slouching position for hours; his body begins aching at his uncomfortable angles. And so he shifts a little, little enough for the cameras to catch it and little enough for the guards to not notice. His back is resting on the wall once again, but this time it's not slagging like an old man, this time it's erect and calm.

The guards outside finish their rounds for the day, and there is laughter he can hear at the end of the hallway, before big doors close off the sounds.

But there are no words.

The cells in the restricted ward are submerged in complete silence, in complete and utter darkness, and for once, he can close his eyes and finally find his own peace. Away from the screams and the pleas of unrested souls. He's not like these people. With his eyes closed against the blackness of the cell, he can't discern from reality to the world of his dreams. A black—purer and darker and denser black than the one in the lightless ward—greets him behind his eyelids.

He misses the words directed to him, for a moment, when there is a month before they're due to come. He misses the words, for a moment, before he drifts into a dreamless, light sleep.

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Sasuke listens to every tray of food as it lands on the cold floor, always a few feet away from his form, everyday. He watches the rough movement without haste until there's a pile of wasted, rotten remnants lying forgotten. By the time the amount of trays reach half the steel door, several insects he had never imagined existed, before he got imprisoned here, are crawling their way up and around to get every grain of what looks—what could be, though he's not sure—rice.

This is when he stands up. The camera catches the swift motion, and instantly follows him as he stands in front of the door.

His bones are wasting away, and his muscles are in a tense kind of anxiety everyday. He doesn't do anything but walk toward the door and stand there, rigid—tired.

A nurse opens his door and barely looks at him, already knowing the procedure of every month. She gingerly sweeps the trays into a rubbish bag, later putting it next to the garbage van. When she closes the door, he sits again against the wall, and sighs.

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He patiently waits.

By now, his back has been numb for days and his patience has been prolongued, elongated, enough. His throat is rasp and tight without the necessary water he needs; his stomach growls from lack of food. He feels his fingertips grasp at air silently; the blood coursing rapidly through his veins. There's nothing he can do—all has been planned out.

Still, he patiently waits.

And waits, and waits, and waits. He waits until the glare he directs toward the camera is strong enough to make the receiver at the other end look away. He waits until the insects crawling atop the forgotten food have long since died. He waits until he can't remember if it's day or night, and the guards haven't visited the ward in three days. He waits until sounds of distress and hunger are heard throughout the long hallway, through his door and through the doors of many others.

It's tiring, oh so tiring, just waiting for the time to drift away and pass before his eyes—the same routine every fucking day. It's tiring, how he's waiting for something that he has not done, for something that no one can investigate deep enough—dig until they find the truth. It's tiring. Yet he waits, because if he ever learnt anything from his childhood, it was patience.

He waits until the time comes.

And when it does, his patience is exhausted. The blood in his body has been unable to reach his toes, for he can barely feel them anymore.

The guards come the next day (a week after the nurse came to pick up the trays of food), early in the morning. He is already awake—sitting on the floor, back against the cold wall—when they enter his cell and look at him. They order him to go with them. He complies, not because it's an order, but because he has been waiting.

Standing up from the straining position, he doesn't get to stretch out his muscles before the middle-aged guards lead him out of his cell, out of the ward, and along another bigger, longer hallway.

There are no cells on the sides, and for that he is slightly grateful. Plenty have been the times when he had to be walked along and out of the ward, the demented people in every cell at his sides; they always knock and pound and throw themselves against their respective steel doors, as if they just _knew_ he was walking. His vision focuses on the present.

The bright light of the hallway makes him flinch, for a moment.

The steps take too long and his hands are balled into fists at his sides with the, surprisingly, still-there strength. Months of inactivity and lack of food are present on his physique, yet he is relieved not all his past form has wasted away.

He can see the outline of a secluded room at the far end of the way; he silently follows the guards' steps faster. He's been waiting for so long that he can't believe it's come to this already.

The room is closer.

The man that he hates; the man that he wants to slaughter; the man that took so damn long to make himself appear; the man who knows the truth and is not willing to share it. That man is here, a few steps ahead of him. Ironically, isn't he always ahead of him?

The guards stop. One of them opens the highly secured door and the other one pushes him inside roughly; Sasuke doesn't pay any heed.

Finally he can see him; he takes a step forward, and his face morphs into cold atmosphere, one that can be probably be felt through the concrete walls.

The hateful man he wishes dead is not sitting in the room; instead, the only thing he can see is a woman he doesn't know at all, sitting and leaning forward, smiling at him with an excitement he can not comprehend.

"Leave us, please," she orders to the guards, voice happily suave and feminine. The guards leave the room silently, close the door, and stand idly by, outside.

He stands there next to the iron door—rotten and old, too old for the technology in this place. Confused and frowning at her smiling face, he suddenly wants to ask her why she's here and not _him_. He refrains from doing so, though, because her face is so foreign to him that he knows—he just knows—she doesn't know of the man's deed.

Passively looking at her, he notices she's been looking at him since the guards left, but he doesn't have any will to talk to her; he wants to step out and up-front _demand_ where he is—the only person he's willing to talk to.

"Uchiha Sasuke," she starts, he remains still, "you may have a seat." She motions to the chair across the table where she's sitting.

He glances at the direction of the object, making no move to advance to said thing. However, she's not looking at him anymore. He sits, fists balling and opening, with nothing to grasp. His knuckles pop in giant sounds of underuse.

The chair squeaks a bit before they fall into silence once again. There are papers in front of her—she starts fumbling through them, trying to find something in specific.

Her hair is pink, her eyes a light green, her form petite; her hands are smooth and there are no visible veins, no sign of hard work. And then his eyes follow her wrists, the pale trail of her arms.

He wonders what kind of trick this is, for he maybe got mistaken with someone else. The fact that this woman knows his full name makes him doubt it, though. Sasuke resists the urge to scowl.

She finally finds it, for she gasps and whispers an "oh" upon recognition.

"What a pleasure to meet you." Their eyes lock. "I have been asking the prison for weeks but they wouldn't let me visit," she smiles a gentle curve, "until now, of course."

She reads something from the paper in front of her eyes in her head, and then she puts it down on the metallic grey of the table, apparently getting all the information she needed. "We only have ten minutes, that's all they gave me, but it's enough." Crossing her arms on the table, she leans a little forward and takes him in.

After studying his composure and characteristics, she presses her lips together in a failed attempt to smile anymore. "Charged with first degree homicide, first degree arson, and the horrible, immoral state in which you left your victims," he stares, "you have been sentenced here until your trial."

He stays silent. She continues.

"Moreover, and strangely, the date is yet to be set as there is no solid evidence for the killings." She stares into his eyes and smiles a little, looking at him down her nose from the taller chair, and he thinks he wants to step outside and into his cell for a moment, because the confidence from a tiny woman while talking to an almost convicted murderer is too grave. She keeps talking, but he tunes it all out. He sighs, slowly, as if testing himself.

Stealthy and watchful, he slowly leans forward and frowns his dark eyes at her own from across the table. He thinks he sees her shrink in her chair, although her demanding and proud eyes don't let her body merge with the seat any further than what gravity exerts.

"Uchiha Itachi was supposed to be here."

Sakura looks around the bare room like a remarkable fool, taking her attention away from his form. Then, he hears her click her tongue and look at him once again with a glint in her eye. "Well, I guess whoever you were expecting couldn't make it today; the office ladies gave me permission to, though. Again, I'm surprised they let me in here."

He answers faster than his heart can beat.

"You've been stating facts since I came in." He leans back, back straight, " Here I thought you had ten minutes."

Her smily, content, silly face is wiped off before he can finish the second sentence.

Clearing her throat, she strongly grabs a few papers in a stack from her right and hands them to him from her side of the table. He barely looks at them; her unasked confidence unnerves him.

He doesn't inquire what the messy stack of papers is, for she beats him to it.

"This," she looks at him and smiles, "is a proposition I want to make."

It is then that he realises she hasn't introduced herself.

"I've come here to get you out of prison."

He frowns ever-so slightly and stares at her for an explanation—surely she didn't pass through all the security to liberate him. True, this place is not the most guarded and secure prisons in the country—the only one that wants to have him. But it is not yet weak if it's holding him, after all.

"Care to elaborate?" It is barely a question, barely there at all but she hears it.

"As the head of the psychiatric hospital ward," he stares, "I, Haruno Sakura, along my coworkers, have agreed to file a request for your future stay in Konoha Hospital."

Sasuke keeps staring—maybe she notices this, for she quickly averts her eyes and looks at him again after a second, having found her next words, perhaps.

"As I mentioned earlier, the trial is taking too long without any definite proof; before the trial takes place, you can get installed as a patient in the hospital ward." She's calm and collected and serious and he takes a moment—what would be the cons of leaving prison? But what would be the pros?

He hears the door open and the guards come in to stand by his side, ready to take him back. Sakura's eyes widen and look at the unsigned papers she'd left for him for what could've been a contract, a step closer toward freedom.

"Wait! I can come by another day—soon, hopefully." The guards make him stand up. Sakura stands up herself, too. "I will need an answer by then."

Sasuke doesn't doubt it.


End file.
